


The Things I Do to You for the Things You Do to Me

by SwissMiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coitus Interruptus, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really likes John's arse. Also, he's kind of a dick.</p>
<p>Written for the come_at_once 24-hour porn challenge on LJ for the prompt "I'm sure it's all right, but the screaming is putting me off." A loose interpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things I Do to You for the Things You Do to Me

Sherlock watched his penis disappear into the shadowy cleft of John's arse. The reading lamp on the nightstand was turned toward the wall, which absorbed most of its illumination but left the bedroom suffused in a grayish twilight. Sherlock let John think it a compromise. John would have preferred the lights off completely, was self-conscious of his middle-aged body, but Sherlock was equally eager - perhaps more so - not to have his face on full display. He was a master of dissembling, but he suspected that his expression might reveal more than he was ready to admit to - even to himself - during these interludes. John might be infuriatingly unobservant in general, but he had an uncanny way of seeing past Sherlock's masks at the most inopportune moments.

Even with the lights low, Sherlock felt safest like this, with John on all fours, his head resting on his forearms and his arse swinging in the air for Sherlock to take. He liked the dichotomy of the resistance John's rectal muscles still put up, even after all these weeks, coupled with the smooth slide. John his for the taking. Physically, but emotionally as well. It was a submission of a sort, although John would probably call it a compromise too. He - John - had been opposed at first, citing hygienic as well as medical concerns, but look how well he took to it now. Taking Sherlock's cock, the first kiss of glans to anus, sucking it in, caressing and squeezing, drawing him in deeper, accomodating every centimetre of him the way John accomodated all of Sherlock's quirks, faults, and foibles in the rest of their lives. Accepting him, holding him in, as if he were loath to let him go. He couldn't ever have all of Sherlock, of course, not really, in the same way that Sherlock could never have all of John, could never have even a fraction, it seemed, of what he wanted, but this was also a compromise. A satisfactory one, for the moment at least.

Sherlock bottomed out, allowed his hipbones just to kiss John's buttocks, before pulling back again at the same measured pace. In ... out ... forward ... back ... Never fully disengaging, always making sure to leave the entire flared head safely inside John's passage. It was a delicate balance. The wet sound of the slicked-up condom passing through the tight ring of John's hole was a sussurus of pleasure. Sherlock adjusted his grip on John's hips, used his thumbs to nudge John's buttocks further apart as he moved forward, then press them together when he retreated, prolonging the contact between their most intimate parts.

Of course they were both fastidious, or as much as they could be. John administered the enema himself. Sherlock washed his hands with antibacterial soap before and after with surgical care, was careful to keep his fingers off any other surfaces until he'd washed, avoiding especially their faces. Sturdy pre-lubricated condom and plenty of additional silicon-based lubricant. And Sherlock always took it slowly, prepared John thoroughly. He enjoyed that part almost as much as the actual fucking. Seeing John's pucker flush from brownish-grey to pink then red, his normally light brown pubic hair turn dark and slick with gel. Feeling the stiff tightness slowly ease, watching his fingers be sucked in, feeling the hot, spongy channel, the slight give, anticipating his cock burrowing along the same path, surrounded by heat and pressure. And the best part, knowing that John was doing it all for him. Only for him.

Sherlock sped up his thrusts, just a little, not enough to make John slide forward on the mattress, but enough that Sherlock started to feel the exertion in his thighs. And in his balls, and the base of his cock. Sperm being lined up for expulsion, other glands adding more fluids in preparation for orgasm. He wanted to fuck John without a condom, to see if it felt any different. He was sure it would, but how different? In what ways? Purely physically, or would it feel different in his head too? Would it make any difference for John?

John had never climaxed this way. That wasn't the point, of course. Sherlock didn't really care one way or the other, and John wasn't doing this for his own physical gratification. Sherlock would have liked to say he didn't care why John was doing it, but that would have been a lie. Part of the pleasure was knowing that John was letting Sherlock fuck him even though he didn't like it; didn't get any physical enjoyment out of it, rather. His penis would be dangling limp between his thighs right now. He enjoyed it on some level, though. Must have. The way he looked at Sherlock afterwards... and before, and at other odd times for no particular reason. It wasn't a sacrifice, anyway. Sometimes Sherlock would lie next to him after he was done and let John thrust against his thigh until he came. Mostly, though, John was too sore afterward and didn't want to do anything other than hobble into the loo to clean up and gingerly apply some Anusol.

Sherlock would fuck John every night if John let him.

John was grunting now in time with Sherlock's thrusts, a tight, choked sound. This was the only part Sherlock didn't like. If a gag would have helped, he would have made John wear one, but there were no words, only throaty noises, and a gag wouldn't stop those. They weren't exclamations of pleasure or encouragements to go on or speed up. They were little inadverent protests and expressions of discomfort. Sherlock knew John tried to keep them in, but they put him off. They sounded too much like one of John's nightmares. An inescapable reminder of what he put John through. Had put him through. Was putting him through now. His eyes would be screwed up tight, his jaw clenched. Sherlock imagined the words behind them. _Hurts. Fuck. Hurry. Do it. Please_.

Sherlock was in no hurry, though. He was still enjoying this, hadn't tipped over into that phase of urgency when ordered thought was no longer possible and all he knew was John ... _John ... John_ , when everything he kept so firmly tamped down and wrapped up came flooding to the surface. No, right now, he was still in control. He could, purely on an aesthetic level, appreciate the supernal asymmetry of John's body: the counterclockwise whorl of his hair at the nape of his neck; the surprisingly unobtrusive puckered scar of the bullet wound high on one shoulder (the exit wound on his chest was slightly larger but not much more spectacular); the map of freckles, moles, and other minor blemishes that Sherlock could draw by heart (and had done) without looking; the slight tilt of his hips as he (still) favoured his left leg, even now, even in this.

Sherlock felt something touch his hand and looked down to see John's hand fumbling to get a grip on his where he held onto John's hip. His left hand. Not the one he'd had up John's arse, but still not exactly sanitary. John knew that, but did it anyway. Needed some sort of ridiculous reassurance, even now with the proof of Sherlock's attraction to him lodged firmly in his arse. Sherlock didn't see a need for verbal confessions or declarations; the fact was, he regularly exhibited clear evidence of physical and emotional attraction to John. Inexplicably, inconveniently, and constantly. If John was too unobservant to notice it, that wasn't Sherlock's problem.

Instead, Sherlock hitched himself up just a few centimetres higher and braced his penis with one hand to drive downward and with sudden force into John, aiming for that elusive spot. He didn't generally make any particular effort to stimulate John's prostate. He didn't have that kind of dexterity in his penis anyway, no point in trying. Maybe he did happen to hit it sometimes during intercourse, but that was more luck than skill. It wasn't that he didn't want John to enjoy it. Not exactly. But knowing John wasn't here to get his rocks off was satisfying in a different way than mutual orgasms. Sherlock was aware some people would say it was also a bit not good. That's why John was here and they weren't.

This time though, he was rewarded with a cut-off cry and John jerking forward, away from the sudden flare of sensation. Too much then. That was why he didn't usually try. Sherlock dropped back into his former position, returning both hands to John's hips to hold him in place so he could resume his own particular pace.

John huffed -- a gasp, maybe oversensitive, but maybe a chuckle too. Either way, a suggestion that Sherlock hurry things along. But Sherlock was not about to give up one moment of the unparalleled experience of fucking John Watson up the arse for anything other than-

His mobile buzzed.

"John," he commanded, soft but sharp. Sherlock carefully split his conscious awareness into two compartments, one continuing to greedily absorb every scent, every hitch of breath, every brilliantly flashing nerve ending, while the other twitched its ears in the direction of the new input.

John stretched and twisted his upper body while trying not to dislodge Sherlock in order to reach down and drag Sherlock's trousers up from where they'd been discarded on the floor. One-handed, he fumbled in the pockets until he found the phone. Sherlock picked up his pace. He felt the approach of his own orgasm tingling, still distant, still controllable, but dark and alluring. His own personal siren, one he had always been able to close his ears to, before. But not now, not anymore. Not since John had offered, and now he was all but hopelessly ensnared. He wanted this, to do this, here, just like this, always and exclusively. Dangerous.

"Ungh, oh God," John gasped through ragged breaths after glancing at the screen. "Lestrade," he managed in a strangled tone before pressing his forehead against his arm again. Sherlock's phone was still clutched in his other hand, angled so that Sherlock could see only part of Lestrade's text. But that part was enough.

He disengaged abruptly, pushing John away as much as using his body as leverage to pull himself out.

"What the hell-" John's head whipped around, but Sherlock had already plucked the phone out of his hand and stood with one foot on the floor, one knee still on the bed, his engorged penis standing straight up in front of him.

He read the text through twice, incensed at the only slowly abating arousal which made such repetition necessary, before dipping down to gather up a handful of his clothing, which he pressed to his throbbing groin.

"Get dressed," he said, already moving toward the door with as much alacrity as he could whilst holding his infuriatingly persistent erection in place. "Possible serial killer."

"You can't be bloody serious," John said. He sounded genuinely angry. "Couldn't that have waited sixty more seconds?"

"Be outside in five minutes if you want to come." He couldn't be bothered with avoiding the double entendre.

"I'm not sure I do, actually," John said, his voice clipped and tight, but Sherlock was halfway down the stairs to his own room already.

 

Sherlock had already given the driver the address and settled back in his seat when John all but fell out of 221, waving urgently.

"He with you?" the driver asked.

Sherlock grunted, spared answering by John pulling the door open.

"We need to have a serious talk about priorities," John grumbled as he bumped up against Sherlock in the back seat and the cab swung out into traffic. His anger had apparently dissipated at the prospect of joining Sherlock on a case. His eyes were bright, his face still flushed from their interlude, his breaths still carrying the echo of his recent arousal.

Sherlock really shouldn't let him come along. Not that Sherlock was particularly reasonable when it came to John, a fact which irritated him no end but which he was as yet unable to control. Sherlock was in serious danger of being useless with the alluring, steady weight of John's body at his side. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and folded his arms, hoping the obvious body language would convince his psyche what was good for it.

Ever since they'd started fucking, the boundaries between their personal spaces seemed to have dissolved, even outside the bedroom. Oh, they might have touched casually before: a brush of hands when passing over a note, a bump of elbows when leaning in to inspect a corpse, a pat on the shoulder when John went up to bed. But now it seemed the two of them couldn't be in the same room without gravitating toward each other, ending up with their feet tangled beneath the kitchen table at breakfast, John's arm slung around the back of Sherlock's chair in the living room as they peered at some evidence on the laptop screen together, or as now, both crowded into one half of the back seat of the taxi.

A residual arousal tingled in Sherlock's abdomen, and something else, too, that made him want to reach over and take John's hand where it was clenched on top of his thigh. Sherlock scowled out the window and tightened his arms. This was not him. Not who he wanted to be. He needed to be sharp and focused, not soppy and sentimental. He couldn't afford to cede any more territory in his mind palace. John had already taken over an alarming amount of real estate, and Sherlock had almost died in Serbia because of it. He'd been distracted, maudlin, pining for God's sake. He'd gotten sloppy and been caught, and even then, the only thing he'd been able to think about was how all that effort was going to be wasted if he couldn't get back to John. He didn't even care about wrapping up the rest of the loose ends he'd been tracking, which had allowed Mary to slip right past his radar.

Next to him, John shifted and rubbed Sherlock's arm, giving it a squeeze. Pleasure both physical and emotional bloomed. If he turned his head, he'd find John staring straight ahead, but with a little half-smile that said he was replaying their tryst in his head too. Sherlock's scowl deepened as his irritation with himself grew. He was going to need to institute a rule about touching.


End file.
